


When I Lose You In A Moment

by SoldierOfMyShadowyMind



Series: Unspoken [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Broken Bucky, Canon-Typical Violence, Dog Tags, Established Relationship, Lucky is there, M/M, Memory Loss, Pain, Winterhawk Week, for no apparent reason, the soldier is back, the tower gets attacked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoldierOfMyShadowyMind/pseuds/SoldierOfMyShadowyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morning comes and you don’t want to know me anymore.</p>
<p>The wounds have been inflicted violently and with purpose, and the procedure, the whole picture bears a single mark. Bucky doesn’t have to ask what happened to Clint. He knows it. He happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How I struggle...

**Author's Note:**

> Again something inspired by a song by Keane, this time it’s "Your Eyes Open".  
> Written for WinterHawk Week 2015 Day 7 – Pain

Clint stood at the window of his bedroom in his apartment in Bed-Stuy, lazily glancing out onto the busy streets, Bucky’s dog tags dangling around his neck, the metal hitting his bare chest every once in a while when the wind increased, the chilly air grazing his skin and causing goosebumps to rise along the length of his arms. He smiled to himself. It’s been a while since he’d been this happy.

He knew he’d got a place in the Avengers Tower, both of them had but he liked it this way. The calm of his own flat, a little space just for him, for _them_ , something he could call his own. _Their_ own. The smile grew wider and he felt a warmth rising in his chest he’d felt so many times in the past few months and still shuddered every time at the accompanying thoughts and pictures that appeared before his inner eye. He liked to think of this as _theirs_.

It was early in the morning, the sun tickling the horizon somewhere in the east, a cloudless sky above him promising a beautiful day, and the high buildings threw shadows from across the street that played on Clint’s face, shading his features. He’d never felt so calm and content.

He felt arms reach around him and the next moment a soft Brooklyn-accented and still sleep-tinged voice whispered into his ear and Bucky rested his chin on Clint’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to his skin and gently pulling him closer. Clint let himself be gathered against Bucky’s chest, leaning back into the embrace and enjoying the moment. The metal arm lay across his stomach but the material was warm and Bucky was careful not to hurt him, applying the softest of pressure so that Clint barely felt it. Clint inclined his head, squinting into a ray of sunlight that chose the exact moment to break through the ravine of concrete and glass, and the smile hadn’t even vanished for one second. His eyes found Bucky’s and he let his gaze linger, fondly studying the features that were too close to allow a decent look.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A regular beeping noise cutting through the heavy silence. Machines on the one side, the daylight seeping through the drawn curtains from the other.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky wakes up to something wet dripping on his hand. Nothing too weird except for the fact that nature must have skipped geography class because the dripping is performed upside down from bottom to top fully ignoring any gravity laws. Bucky’s half-sleeping brain still wonders how this is possible when his body – he realises he is tensed all over, every muscle strained and ready for action – figures out the inaccuracy of the whole scenario and something in his mind clicks and he opens his eyes to find Lucky at his bedside, licking his flesh hand that is loosely hanging over the edge. Bucky stares at the dog, he’s not able to tear his tired eyes away but somewhere at the back of his mind he notices the concern in Lucky’s eye. Just that – no, not now. Trying to ignore the signs his body sends him Bucky turns his head around on the pillow, now facing the wall.

And an empty side of the narrow bed.

Bucky stares. Heartbeats pass and he just stares. Then reaches out with his metal hand, the mechanics of his cybernetic arm whirring gently into life, and it hovers above the mattress before he lets it slump down, the information slowly sinking into his head. A small whine from Lucky makes him turn again and Bucky heaves himself up but the movement is too quick and his head collides with the slanted ceiling under which the bed is placed. Bucky grimaces, rubbing the back of his head and wondering since when Clint’s apartment has inclined ceilings.

 

Bucky blinks a few times until his eyes have adjusted to the dim light in the room and he takes a look around. There are two things that register in his mind immediately. This is not his boyfriend’s apartment in Bed-Stuy. This isn’t the Avengers Tower either. So, where the hell is he?

The whole scenery doesn’t look like he knows it, like he’s been here before. The small room is almost empty safe for the shabby bed and a table in the corner that looks like it’s seen better days. The top is smeary and dirty with the dust of years of disuse and the chair, which’s backrest is leant against the table, is missing half a leg. The window only reluctantly allows the greyish daylight to seep through for the glass, framed in mouldy wood, triggers the thought of too many endured changes of weather, and narrowing his eyes at it Bucky spots a crack in the glass that runs straight from top to bottom only to end in a hole, jagged around the edges where a bullet had come through. It’s only a single point of entry and the shards of glass are scattered underneath the window on the slim ledge. Bucky drags himself up, his mind slowly clicking the connections into place that it needs for him to activate his instincts. Examining the pieces he reckons they’re fresh, recently ripped out of their place, and when he takes one between thumb and forefinger of his flesh hand the sharp edges cut into the skin and Bucky hisses, throwing the glass back onto the ledge. But he remains professionally calm, his face a mask and when he turns the movement is inaudible, the air not even shifting. His eyes follow the trail the bullet must have taken and they catch onto a spot on the opposite wall. Another hole. So the bullet flew straight through the room, crashing the window first and then getting stuck in the bare concrete wall. The entry point lies low so whoever fired the shot was aiming at a target in this very room. And whoever the target was, either they’re gone or-

Bucky’s eyes sweep across the room. No body. That only leaves one logical conclusion. _He_ was the target.

Which, in return, raises more questions. For starters, why are they after him? Who are _they_? Did they give up on chasing him? Bucky woke up on the bed, alive and physically intact which means he escaped their radar. Or he got to them before they could get to him. But again, no bodies. Apart from the fact that Bucky feels as if he’s slept for ages and that there’s a black hole in his mind when he tries to recall the past few hours he feels perfectly fine.

The blank space in his memory makes him jump. Did they, did HYDRA track him down? Did they find him, capture him, wipe out his memory again and then just left him here? Bucky shakes his head and a faint stab of pain rushes through his left temple. It doesn’t sound like something HYDRA would do when they got to lay hands on their soldier again.

 _Their_ soldier? No, he’s not _theirs._ He’s not the soldier anymore, he’s changed, he’s changed back, he is Bucky Barnes. And he’s no one’s possession.

It needs a few repeats until Bucky believes it.

Breathing even he turns again, peeking out of the hole the bullet left in the glass and unmoving he stands as he lets his gaze dart across the courtyard that lies in front of him. First floor, so he’s one above ground level. The yard is empty, safe for a couple of rubbish bags, their former content littering the cobblestone ground. Again, no bodies, no one there. Bucky’s eyes dart to the building opposite his position which looks just as rundown and abandoned as the one he’s currently in. Bucky squints a little and his head processes the necessary calculations. About one hundred metres separate the two buildings, no problem for a sniper. Every window gets a thorough check but when Bucky is sure that there’s no one lurking behind the walls, rifle ready to shoot, he straightens his back and re-composes himself into an upright position.

None of this, however, explains _why_ he’s here. Bucky sifts through his mind, scans every thought for a hint on what happened but it’s hard to focus and he can’t quite get a grip on anything. It scares him, to say the very least, and he knows something went terribly wrong, _must_ have gone awry but he can’t grasp the signs that usually tell him the story. Then his mind rolls back to the bullet and he follows its trail, this time with his feet and comes to a halt in front of the wall, slumping down onto his knees. Metal fingers scratch at the concrete when he raises his arm and mechanically begins to dig out the bullet. The metal makes high pitched noises when it comes in contact with the material and Bucky internally winces but keeps on going until he doesn’t because the damn bullet is stuck too far in the concrete and he won’t get it out, metal arm or not. Pressing out a hiss through gritted teeth because bloody hell, the bullet is the only piece of evidence that could have given him a lead on what is going on here, he props himself up against the wall, head leaning back, the hard concrete scraping at the back of his head but he doesn’t notice. Bucky grimaces, his face a mirror of utter confusion and dissatisfaction about himself. Some supreme top league assassin he is.

Well, he’s been a puppet on a string, extraordinarily so, but he did know which strings to pull himself depending on what the situation required.

Right now, Bucky Barnes, formerly the Winter Soldier and HYDRA asset, is well and truly clueless.

This is the moment Lucky chooses to make his presence known again and the quiet whine has Bucky jolting up in dawning horror.

Lucky. Why’s Clint’s dog with him when said man is nowhere to be seen?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Their moment of silent bliss only lasted as long as Clint’s phone remained asleep. The sudden shrill ringing destroyed the atmosphere and despite Bucky’s pleading look of letting it be Clint picked it up.

“Yep?”

His face turned from happy and content to stern and anxious in a second and Bucky watched the transformation with growing worry. The creases that appeared on Clint’s forehead boded ill and the tone with which he replied to the unheard question was tense and the concern too evident.

“I’ll be there. Give me fifteen minutes.”

Clint hang up, tossing the phone onto the bed where it bounced off once before laying still. He wriggled himself out of Bucky’s embrace which only caused Bucky to wrap his arms around him tighter.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his face serious and voice carefully even.

Clint didn’t meet his eyes when he bit his bottom lip and Bucky could tell he was reluctant to share the information.

Bucky outwardly remained still, his eyes never leaving Clint while his mind had embarked on a rampage several moments ago. This moment, it was the image of perfection and he didn’t want it to be destroyed, for once he only wanted a single day of quiet togetherness, no interruptions, just the beauty of them being together, enjoying the here and now. He just wanted to have his Clint for himself for one day, not having to share him with missions requesting his presence.

When the answer came, it was quiet and low but Bucky could hear the deep concern coating Clint’s tone. “The tower’s under attack. Unknown enemy.”

Bucky inwardly sighed and it took him a few blinks to realise he’d repeated this physically, too. This was an emergency, he knew that but for _once-_

“They said Tasha’s been-” The choked sound that left Clint’s throat made Bucky’s heart wrench and he didn’t know whether to be angry or worried. He knew how much Natasha meant to Clint, and he could see the sorrow in his eyes no matter how hard Clint tried to remain calm and steady. If Nat was in danger, then this discussion had seized to be relevant as soon as it began because there was no arguing about going or staying.

Silently cursing the day Bucky let him go, reaching for his own armour. “I’m coming with you” he announced flatly.

That made Clint jump. “No! You stay here and wait for me, I won’t-”

“Unknown enemy? Clint, do you honestly ask of me to sit here and wait while my boyfriend walks straight into the claws of who knows what? This might be HYDRA, this might be Loki, this might be even worse, I am _not_ ” and Bucky put great emphasis on the word, “letting you go on your own. You need back up” he added, his voice as controlled as always when a mission was imminent.

He didn’t miss Clint flinching at Loki’s name and Bucky scolded himself for digging that up again but time was of the essence and he couldn’t afford to be thoughtful now.

Clint, on the other hand, didn’t seem to give in so easily. “And what if it’s HYDRA? You know what they’ll do when they get to you and I don’t want-” _to lose you_ was what he wanted to say but for some reason the words caught in his throat but Bucky understood him anyway.

“Let it be HYDRA, I’m prepared, Clint, I’m not what I was a few months ago” and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder he quietly said, voice tender, “Thanks to you.”

“But, Lucky…” It was a last feeble attempt that Bucky brushed aside with an assuring smile.

“Lucky’s a grown-ass superhero pizza dog, he knows how to look after himself.”

A sigh, then a shake of the head. “I still don't approve.”

“You don’t have to.” Bucky handed him his combat gear and minutes later Clint Barton had turned into Hawkeye and his face was so stern, it almost scared Bucky. “It’s my choice.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Why’s the dog even here? Thinking about flight and armed chasings Lucky is the last living thing Bucky would take with him. Even if he’s a grown-ass superhero pizza dog, raised by an Avenger. The dog inclines its head, watching the man with a sad eye. Feeling a sudden, frighteningly overwhelming need for physical contact, Bucky extends his flesh hand. “C’mere, ol’ sport.” He startles at the roughness of his own voice and swallows a few times until his throat feels comfortable again.

A blink.

_“Let it be HYDRA, I’m prepared, Clint, I’m not what I was a few months ago.”_

The memory hits him so suddenly Bucky almost cries out in mental pain and then piece by piece the last hours return to him. The phone call, the fighting, bullets, arrows, knifes flying through the air, the sound of repulsors right next to his ear.

Trying to stay calm is suddenly a lot more difficult that he remembers it to be but there is something at the back of his mind, hidden, dusted, and he can’t reach it. It is important, of that Bucky is absolutely sure but the harder he tries the further it slips away from him. The situation causes something in his stomach akin to nausea and he feels sick, images of HYDRA agents flashing before his inner eye, but those memories are old and they consist of torture and pain and _he doesn’t want to remember that._ Scrambling to his feet Bucky is consumed by one thought. He has to find Clint.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When they arrived at the Tower only minutes later it felt like New York all over again. Bucky had heard enough stories to be able to imagine what it must have felt like and right now he thought to know how it looked like. Steve practically ran into them, waving for them to duck away and a split second later his shield went zinging over their heads, knocking over two men that were coming after them. Steve yelled over the chaos, assuring Clint that Natasha was inside the tower, wounded but all right, and Bruce was taking care of her. Bucky turned, taking a quick look around and taking in the whole sight of the mess he’s standing in, assessing every important component and cataloguing the damage done already. Next to him Clint drew his bow and next thing he knew arrows went flying past his face. His ears perceived a faint roar and then Stark came into view, all suited up and frying the intruders. Bucky thought to hear him shouting something like “I love guests but I do not appreciate them destroying my home!” but then everything was just too loud to make out the origins of the noises.

“Bucky, watch out!” The voice belonged to Steve and Bucky turned just in time to knock his metal arm into the face of the man attacking him from behind. It wasn’t sufficient, though, because Bucky was slammed into the wall behind him and he gasped when his back hit stone. The collision pressed all the air out of his lungs and for a second the world stood still. Then Clint was at his side, eyes wide and mouth open in what looked like an attempt at words but Bucky couldn’t make out the sound, his ears were ringing from the impact. He reached up to touch at his head and when he found everything intact and working he scrambled to his feet, gripping onto Clint’s arm. Merely standing again something whirred through the air, grazing his earlobe. He spun around to be greeted with the sight of more men coming at them, guns drawn, and finally his operational mind took over and he pulled his gun, aiming shoot after shoot at the approaching enemy. One by one they fell, like an army of tin soldiers and Bucky didn’t care if it was HYDRA or someone else. They were a threat and that was the only fact his brain needed to coordinate his movements. Feeling strangely accustomed to this, completely in his element Bucky took out another target and usually this would have been a thought that would spark worry in him but right now the situation at hand was worrying enough. There was a slight burn in his right shoulder where a bullet a little more than grazed his arm but he simply registered the information and packed it away to be dealt with later. His magazine emptied far quicker than was probably good but Bucky just replaced it, resuming his actions. His body moved quickly and swiftly, almost gracefully, and soon he was the one keeping the entrance to the tower clear.

It was just one second of distraction when he heard a yell behind him and his eyes left the area in front of him. This one second was enough to catch him in utter surprise when he was suddenly swept off his feet and flying into the nearest barrier. Bucky crashed through the glass door and landed harshly on his back, tearing his metal arm up in defence at the last second before the shards rained down on him and the thought that he didn’t feel like any bone broke inside of him almost echoed like a fun fact in the back of his mind. He rolled over to his side, swallowing dust and debris when coughing and gulping down breath after breath and then he was kneeling pressed up against the wall next to him that surprisingly enough, was still standing. The blast had swept everyone off their feet and Bucky didn’t even bother to wonder what had caused the explosion because all he saw through the thick layer of powdery particles that the air now consisted of was–

His mind went rogue when he saw a bullet dive through Steve’s gear.

And another.

And a third.

The world went red.


	2. ...to get you back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this runs under the theme "pain", now comes the more painful part in this.

Clint.

This is all he can think now. When Lucky is here it means that Clint can’t be far.

“Where’s your daddy, Lucky, huh? Where’s Clint?”

The one-eyed mutt just squints at him, and Bucky is confused over the otherwise so clever dog. Then his eyes travel downwards and he registers that Lucky’s effectively only standing on three legs. His front left paw is lifted slightly off the floor and Bucky sees the blood.

“Poor chap, what happened to you?” His voice is barely above a hoarse whisper and he vaguely realises that he only speaks to calm himself because he fucking doesn’t know where Clint is. Which _is_ a more than valid cause for concern. Especially when he wakes up in the middle of nowhere surrounded by concrete and glass he doesn’t recognise.

Lucky releases a painful whine when Bucky reaches out for his injured limb but he cradles the dog gently against his chest, careful not to squeeze the leg in his arms. “Let me have a look at that” Bucky mutters and examines the wound. The bleeding has mostly stopped but there’s dirt around the edges and it seems some of it has already gotten into the wound. Bucky grimaces when he spots the shard of glass that is poking out between the fur. Lucky must have trodden into it and it dug further into his paw the more he tried to get it out. Gently, he brushes the fur aside to get a closer look at the sharp-edged intruder and sees to his relief that the shard isn’t stuck too far in the flesh.

“Don’t bite me, Lucky, but this might pinch a bit.”

And with one swift, deft motion he pulls out the shard. Lucky yowls but Bucky is quick to soothe him, bandaging his paw with a piece of cloth he rips from his shirt.

“Okay, boy, stay here, I’m gonna go find Clint.” Bucky pets Lucky’s head and stumbles to stand on his feet.

He has no clue as to where on earth he is but it doesn’t really matter because–

The image of Steve falling backwards, his face a mirror of utter surprise unfolds before his eyes before he can stop it and Bucky is thrown back to the moment. His breath hitches and grips onto the nearest something to steady himself, chest heaving heavily. He wants to yell, shout at his head to stop but his throat is suddenly terribly dry and sore and he can’t get out a single tone. Pictures of the battle appear and snippets of the fight are thrown at him, the explosion, the overwhelming silence after that and then, Steve. And again Bucky reaches that point in his mind where he can’t go further and it vexes him because he _needs_ to know what happened. He has a vague inkling but he doesn’t want it to be confirmed, please, for the love of everything he loves, please don’t. He can’t go through this again.

Bucky swallows hard, and opens his eyes he didn’t realise he closed. A sharp stab of pain rushes through his right shoulder and he releases his grip on the doorjamb with a supressed hiss. His metal hand comes up to locate the ache but when he draws it back in front of his eyes there’s blood shining red on the silver plates.

“Fuck!” The hiss aches in his throat and Bucky isn’t able to concentrate. The blood on his shoulder is fresh, the resumed bleeding most likely provoked by the distress causing his heart to pump blood through his veins at a quicker pace. It’s soaked through his shirt and why doesn’t he wear his combat gear? His mind has ventured so far as to identify this mess as the aftermath of the battle at the tower but there are too many unanswered questions rampaging in his head and he just feels terrible. Bucky tries to concentrate on his breathing, in and out, and it calms him a little. A cough shakes him when he attempts to clear his throat and the feeling of complete physical functionality vanishes when Bucky realises that he isn’t as fine as he felt a couple of minutes ago. Head still spinning he tries to catalogue the signs indicating his condition, figures that apart from the wound at his right shoulder he doesn’t suffer much more than perhaps a mental breakdown. The irony tastes like bile on his tongue. But this is nothing he can’t deal with. Clint showed him how to regain control over himself and slowly, slowly Bucky’s breathing returns to a normal pace.

Damn it. He needs to find him. Because after the image of Steve there’s nothing but blackness in his mind and this combined with the fact that he is where he is isn’t a sign Bucky figures positive.

He tries it once. “Clint?” Meekly, his voice echoes in the room. No response.

Bucky clenches his teeth tightly together and takes a step out of the door he’s been clinging to. The narrow corridor is just as dreary and dilapidated as the rest of this place and there’s nothing but crumbs of concrete in his way. Bucky makes it into the middle of the hallway and chances a glance down the staircase. Nothing. He seems to be well and truly alone. Steadying himself with another deep breath he rakes his flesh hand through his sticky hair and tries to _think._ Suss out what happened. Step after step he mentally takes back, rewinds the events in his head but it doesn’t help. It always ends with Steve falling.

_All right. Try something else._

Bucky lets his gaze meander, not as calm as he was when he woke up and he can feel the panic bubbling underneath but he manages to keep it at bay. In the distance a thunder rolls and as if hearing through thick cotton wool Bucky’s ears perceive the faint sound of rain patting against the windows. Self-preservation instincts or not, his professionalism seems to have given up on him.

This is when his eyes latch on something lying on the ground. Cautiously Bucky bends down, the splinters of concrete scattered on the floor scratching at the fabric of his trousers. A silver sparkle, a reflection of the dim light has caught his attention and he brushes aside the dirt and his fingers reach for the object lying half concealed under the dust. Gently tearing at it Bucky retrieves it from the ground.

 

The memories hit him full force and he’s back in the Avengers Tower, lazily watching Clint from where he’s slouched on the bed as the archer rummages through his drawers.

_“Clint? What are you doing? Come back.”_

_Clint’s bare shoulders are hunched and he’s peering into the darkness of the drawer, uttering something too muffled for Bucky to understand but he’s not showing any signs of terminating his undertaking. Bucky is most likely the man on the planet with the least things to call his own. There really isn’t much Clint could find. As always, he surprises Bucky._

_“Wow.” It doesn’t really have the strength of an exclamation but there’s more than a hint of astonishment in Clint’s voice when he stares at something he’s found at the back of the bottom drawer, hidden away in a small metal case. “You kept them?”_

_“Kept whaaadd?” Bucky yawns around the words, patting the empty side of the bed but the archer’s attention is well and truly absorbed by the object in his hands._

_Clint looks up, eyes shining and a cheeky smile playing around his lips. “Your dog tags.”_

_“Dog what?” For an embarrassingly long second Bucky thinks about Lucky and his eyes slowly dart to the mutt that’s curled up on the mattress on the edge of the bed. This isn’t_ his _dog, why the hell-_

_When it dawns on him Bucky is tempted to smack his hand flat against his face but Clint’s smirk does the job just as well._

_“Been a time since you left the army, I know.”_

_Not voluntarily, Bucky wants to retort but before he can open his mouth Clint is rambling on about his findings._

_“They must be antique by now! Seventy years old plus belonging to the one man of the damn Howling Commandos who reportedly lost his life in the service for his country, fighting the evil and taking down HYDRA, man, I don’t even dare guess what the Smithsonian would pay for that, I mean, look at them, barely a scratch on ‘em, this is valuable shit, Buck!”_

_Bucky thinks that ‘valuable’ and ‘shit’ don’t really match but he doesn’t say anything. It goes on like that for the best part of another minute but Bucky’s drowned out the noise and just taken to watching Clint as his lover is marvelling at the tiny metal rectangles in his hands. It’s cute how fascinated he is by what he’s found and Bucky smiles fondly, thinking to see Clint’s lips form words along the lines of “You should never give ‘em away.”_

_There’s a beat of silence, Clint watching the items, Bucky watching Clint._

_Then Clint pulls at the silver chain bonding the tags together and drags it over his head so that the metal tags come to rest on his chest. He looks down, eyeing himself for a moment, an approving grin surfacing and then glances up to meet Bucky’s gaze again._

_“What are you doing?” Bucky asks for the second time this morning but this time with slight shock lacing his tone._

_“Huh?” is all that his answer consists of as Clint makes his way over to the bed, squatting down beside Bucky on the edge. “Got any complaints about me wearing ‘em tags?” Clint pouts at him and Bucky shakes his head as best as he can given that his composure doesn’t allow a full movement._

_“No, just…” his words leave him and he doesn’t know how to continue._

_“Just what?” Clint quirks a brow, clearly not satisfied with that fragment apparently resembling a reply._

_Just that it makes you look like me, Bucky thinks but he doesn’t let his tongue form the words. Sitting there, the dog tags around his neck, Clint reminds him of himself on that evening after he enlisted to the army. It had been raining all day and Stevie had come over to Bucky’s. He remembers Steve envying him for the things and it had been their first in a long line of arguments about Uncle Sam, the war, and Bucky being allowed to contribute his part in the great scheme of things while Steve wasn’t. Bucky had sat down on the couch, right next to Steve and looked at him with the same expression that is covering Clint’s face right now. The same mixture of emotions, a soft smile and gentle eyes concealing the worry._

_Bucky cracks a smile. How did he adopt so many of Clint’s habits and never noticed Clint was turning into him?_

_“Nothing. It’s all right, sweetheart.” He extends his arms and nudges at his lover’s hand. “C’mere.”_

_Clint doesn’t need to be told twice, he flashes him a blinding smile and snuggles into Bucky’s embrace._

_“I’ll keep ‘em on” he informs him, voice low and his Midwestern accent seeping through. “So that when you find them, you know that I must have lost them which means something’s wrong.”_

 

Bucky hadn’t really put any thought to what Clint was saying at that time but now he’s holding the dog tags in his hand and he knows something is terribly wrong. He stares at the things as if to force them to trigger the memories he needs in order to understand all of this but all he feels is cold metal against his skin and there’s nothing he can elicit out of the items. He doesn’t want to remember the last part but he knows it’s important, maybe Clint’s life depends on it and he squeezes his eyes shut, digging into his head one more time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He heard the shots behind him but he never turned, keeping his eyes forward, his mind on track, focusing on how to shake off his persecutors. He figured he currently had a seven hundred metres lead over them but he needed to put more distance between him and the men. The weight he’s carrying was beginning to strain his arms and despite all the training he felt he needed a minute of rest. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps and he ducked away behind a pile of boxes, rounding the corner of the building. Behind him the firing had seized and he took a long deep inhale of air before he, slowly, turned to squint around the corner.

He shouldn’t have done that.

He was looking straight into the barrel of a gun.

His mind was just as blank as it always was when he was out on missions and he let the weight in his arms drop to the ground, his now free hands coming up to grab the assailant’s wrist, break it in a brutal twist and throw the weapon to the ground, the man who had been holding it following not long after. His back prickled with the sense of danger and he spun around, yanking one attacker down to ground with him. He rolled around, pressing the man’s face into the dust and slamming his metal elbow into his spine. A sound he was unable to identify bubbled out of the man’s throat but he ended it right then and there, breaking his neck. Two others were now coming at him.

Great. Four against one, what fair a fight.

He didn’t hesitate to perform similar procedures on the rest of the group and it only took him a small amount of minutes until the area was clear and he was standing right in the middle of an ocean of debris. It didn’t bother him, though, he didn’t feel anything. It was just like any other mission.

Only that he couldn’t remember anyone giving him a mission.

He blinked a few times in dawning confusion but brushed the thought aside when his eyes caught sight of the bundle at his feet again. That was his mission.

He scooped it up into his arms and the familiar weight pressed against his chest he headed for a shabby looking door.

It wasn’t even close to something resembling a safe house but it had to make do for now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His head hurts terribly, and the ache is getting more furious and burning the deeper he digs but he _needs to know._ Bucky tears his eyes open in a horrified gasp, choking on the air his lungs inhale. A cold shiver runs down his spine. The debris littering the floor, the disconcerting quietness of everything around him, Clint not being where he should be – with him, at his side – it suddenly all makes sense and his alarm bells are shrieking on red alert.

This is when he panics.

Bucky braces both hands on the floor, his flesh arm shaking violently and he clenches his teeth, forces himself to freaking _calm down_ for he hasn’t found Clint yet. He knows what he’s seen in his head isn’t the whole story but right now it’s enough to be repulsed, disgusted by himself. He tears at his hair and the pain transports him back into reality and he gets up, taking step after step, ripping open door after door lined up along the corridor, looking into room after room, and then he suddenly stops.

Bucky freezes in his tracks and he wants to cry out in relief and desperation and pain all at the same time.

He’s found him.

He’s finally found his beloved archer.

Bucky runs towards him, falling to his knees in front of him, both hands coming up to cup his cheeks and all he wants is to cradle him close when he realises that Clint isn’t moving.

He’s slouched against the wall, but only his neck is propped up against it, the rest of his body slumped on the floor, his head hanging down to one side onto his shoulder, his right leg is spread from the body in an odd angle and his arms are sprawled uselessly over the shreds that once resembled a shirt. There’s a thin rivulet of blood trickling down from his temple onto his cheek but what shocks Bucky the most is the cut that runs from the side of his throat all the way down to his chest, deepening on its way south.

Bucky stares at the image in horror, mouth agape as if to scream but not a single sound leaves his lips. It takes Bucky a whole minute to realise that he should check for a pulse. Gingerly he puts two trembling fingers to the uninjured side of Clint’s throat, then holds his hand over his nose. There’s a pulse, it’s weak and irregular but he can feel it and the breathing grazing his skin is shallow and bordering on not even there but Clint is alive.

He’s alive. He’s injured and unconscious but he’s alive.

Bucky repeats it over and over to convince himself, to keep himself from freaking out completely. His ability to see things for what they really are, to put feelings aside and let rationality calculate risks and chances has well and truly fucked off.

Bucky swallows and tries to calm himself so that he can take a closer look at Clint’s injuries, see what he can do by means of first aid.

The wounds have been inflicted violently and with purpose, and the procedure, the whole picture bears a single mark. Bucky doesn’t have to ask what happened to Clint. He knows it. _He_ happened to him.

It’s a thought which’s burden he can hardly bear but he’s aware of the fact that it’s also been him who brought Clint here.

_The phone call._

_The tower, the battle, the explosion._

_Steve falling._

_The world going red and him not being able to tell friend and enemy apart._

_Him aiming the gun at everyone in his way. Killing people. Fighting off anyone who tries to stop him because Stevie–_

_A voice at his side and him lashing out, cutting it off, drowning out the noise._

_And then, the realisation._

It all comes back to Bucky now and he can’t handle it, it’s too much and a wave of hot regret washes over him with such force it almost knocks him over. Seeing his Stevie fall under three shots of a gun had triggered his soldier self that was still there inside of him and he went berserk, Bucky Barnes disappearing and the Winter Soldier emerging again. In his rampage he had attacked everyone who was getting too close to Steve and Clint had wanted to hold him back but Bucky had simply fought him off, not realising it was his dearest boyfriend he was throwing on the brink of death. At some point in all this chaos he must have realised what he was doing and apparently he fled, escaping the mess he’d created but not without taking the wounded archer with him. Had that been the soldier thinking or Bucky? He’d found the house, fought off the men who were chasing him (had they been wanting to get to him when they attacked the tower? Hoping to find him there? Had he been the reason for all this in the first place?) and he’d dropped Clint in one of the rooms, not considering that he needed medical attention and then he’d simply passed out on the shabby mattress he’s woken up on roughly half an hour ago. He doesn’t know how long he’s slept, whether the others are already out there looking for them and-

Bucky’s mind stops and he wonders, for one shocking second, if he’s harmed anyone else of his friends.

He doesn’t know.

There’s too many unanswered questions in his head and he can’t think straight, his head hurts and his heart aches for he can never right those wrongs and it’s all his fault.

A shuddering inhale finally releases the tears and they trickle down his cheeks, hot and merciless, and Bucky hates himself for what he’s done.

“Clint?” his voice is shaking and it’s so meek; he’s almost choking on the name. “Come on, Clint, wake up, please. Open your eyes, you hear me? Don’t do this to me! Clint, _please_!”

He gently shakes his lover’s shoulders but Clint’s eyes remain closed and all Bucky can do is gather him to his chest and hold him, hoping that Clint will be able to forgive him.

A choked sound, a hoarse cough next to his ear makes his heart skip a beat and Bucky cranes his neck to his side, adjusting his hold on Clint so that he can turn to see. When he looks up, his gaze is met by blue eyes and there’s fear glistening in them.

“Clint!” Bucky cracks a weak smile, his breath hitching and he thanks whoever’s up there that his precious archer is alive and awake.

But Clint doesn’t return the smile. Instead he just stares, unbelieving and clearly frightened. When Bucky reaches out to gingerly touch at his cheek, Clint bodily flinches away from him, eyes widening. He looks as if he wants get up and run as fast as he can but his tortured body fails him, denies him service because his eyes flicker shut again and he drifts off into unconsciousness, collapsing in Bucky’s arms.

The thought that hits him right then is the cruellest form of torture Bucky’s ever endured.

Clint is scared of him.

He can’t blame him, really, but still, the hurt look in his blue eyes stings and his heart constricts painfully as he kneels there on the ground, his arms tightly wrapped around Clint.

 

Time goes by in slow motion from then on and Bucky doesn’t really remember anything. Of the hours that pass there are only snippets of events flashing in his memory. He just moves, gently lifting Clint up from the floor and holding him in his arms, carrying him out of the room and down the staircase. He remembers Lucky and calls out for the dog and his mind doesn’t ponder how Lucky managed to stay with them all the time, since he doesn’t remember actively taking him with them to the tower in the first place. It wouldn’t make sense, would it?

Bucky stumbles out into the harsh grey daylight and the rain coming down in torrents, his feet moving with a mind of their own and they’re taking him back the route that led him here. His eyes see the four bodies abandoned on the gravel ground but it doesn’t register in his mind.

The last thing he sees before his knees hit the ground and he passes out when exhaustion eventually overwhelms him, is the image of Steve standing in front of him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A voice next to him. “Clint? Bucky’s here.”

A beat.

“Tell him to come in.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Bucky?”

Bucky’s head snaps up, the voice drifting to his ear a familiar sound in the hustle and bustle of the hospital.

“He’s awake.” Steve is standing next to him, his face a controlled mirror of worry and Bucky just stares at him. His torso is wrapped in bandages under the white t-shirt even though they know he heals fast. Steve looks like he’s been up a while, his hair is slightly messy and the expression on his face one of creeping tiredness but nevertheless he smiles gently. One of the two most important persons in his life whose scars Bucky feels responsible for. At least he doesn’t have to fear for his life anymore. Steve is alive and he’s well. Bucky’s been told that in the end they were able to fight off the worst but some of the attackers escaped to god knows where and they still don’t know who is responsible for the strike or what their intention was. The rest of the team is back at what is left of the tower, cleaning up the mess and attending to their own scratches. So no damage done there, then. Bucky’s safe and the only person he’s hurt is Clint. It’s so ironic that it’s suffocating, making his stomach churn and his mouth tastes bitter, and he feels as if he might throw up.

Three days and three nights Bucky’s spent here, at Clint’s side, watching his lover sleep and hoping for him to wake up. But in the end he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing this expression in Clint’s eyes again and he’d left the room, taking a seat outside in the corridor.

And since then, he’s sitting here, waiting.

Bucky shakes his head. “No, he wouldn’t want to see me.” Too deep runs the fear of being rejected, of Clint not wanting to know him anymore after all the horrible things he’s done. Bucky feels like a wreck and the guilt is choking him.

“He does.”

Steve squats down beside him, an arm coming to rest around his shoulders and he looks Bucky in the eyes when he quietly says, “He’s asked for you.”

It’s a weak motion but Bucky shakes his head, the words sounding too unreal in his ears. Nevertheless, he lets himself be dragged to his feet by Steve and then he’s standing in the room, shuffling a little closer to the single bed, head held low.

“Hey, Bucky.” The voice is croaky, sleep-roughed and tinged with drugged exhaustion but it makes Bucky cautiously glance up.

The small smile he’s greeted with sets the world back into order.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Clint stands at the window of his bedroom in his apartment in Bed-Stuy, lazily glancing out onto the busy streets, Bucky’s dog tags dangling around his neck, the metal hitting his bare chest every once in a while when the wind increases, the chilly air grazing his skin and causing goosebumps to rise along the length of his arms.

Bucky smiles to himself. It’s been a while since he’s been this happy.

He knows he’s got a place in the Avengers Tower, both of them have but he likes it this way. The calm of Clint’s own flat, a little space just for him, for _them_ , something he can call his own. _Their_ own. The smile grows wider and he feels a warmth rising in his chest he’s felt so many times in the past few months and still shudders every time at the accompanying thoughts and pictures that appear before his inner eye. He likes to think of this as _theirs_.

It is early in the morning, the sun tickling the horizon somewhere in the east, a cloudless sky above him promising a beautiful day, and the high buildings throw shadows from across the street that play on Clint’s face, shading his features. Bucky’s never felt so calm and content.

Bucky slips his arms around Clint and the next moment a soft Brooklyn-accented and still sleep-tinged voice whispers into the archer’s ear and Bucky rests his chin on Clint’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to his skin and gently pulling him closer. Clint lets himself be gathered against Bucky’s chest, leaning back into the embrace and enjoying the moment. The metal arm lies across his stomach but the material is warm and Bucky is careful not to hurt him, applying the softest of pressure hoping that Clint barely feels it. Clint inclines his head, squinting into a ray of sunlight that chooses the exact moment to break through the ravine of concrete and glass, and Bucky sees the smile on his lips. His own hasn’t even vanished for one second. Clint’s eyes find Bucky’s and he lets his gaze linger, fondly studying the features that are too close to allow a decent look and Bucky tries his best to hide the tears that are beginning to pool behind his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Please don’t ask me how on earth Lucky got there. I have no idea. I just needed him there.


End file.
